Snowballs
by infy
Summary: On a peaceful winter afternoon, a troubled Mitsuhide returns inside to find a pleasant conversation and the calming sound of a shamisen waiting for him.


The snow fell in delicate wisps from the hazy sky onto the ground below him, and even as he stood perched on the upper deck of the castle, he felt the calm wafting up from the powder into the icy wind stinging his ears and blowing delicately through his long, jet black hair. The scene was almost reverentially peaceful, a feeling experienced very rarely in the presence of Nobunaga Oda. A relief, almost. Mitsuhide stared down from the upper deck of the castle at the Oda family—that was what Hideyoshi called them, a family, no matter how ephemeral he felt near them. He appreciated his sentiments; the idea that he could call this place his home, these people his family, comforted him somewhat, but there was still a nagging feeling that his place was not really with them. This peace nagged at him to join the festivities happening below, but he felt more comfortable observing from afar.

He stared down at Nohime and Ranmaru Mori, hanging close by Lord Nobunaga; Noh was teasing Ranmaru as usual, holding his face in her claws and putting lipstick on him. Mitsuhide assumed it was for her own amusement, but he did see a hint of a smile on Nobunaga's face as he stared at his page; Mitsuhide was unsure why. A small, yet sadistic laugh trilled from Noh's throat (he thought he heard her mention something about really liking how that shade went with his pale skin tone), and Ranmaru's cries of objection were equally quiet—it was not his place to protest. Mitsuhide's lips quirked; yet another display of Ranmaru's admirable, unquestioning loyalty.

He shifted his glance to the side at Toshiie Maeda and Hideyoshi Hashiba, under the watchful eye of Katsuie Shibata. As Mitsuhide could have guessed, the urge to throw a snowball for Hideyoshi was all-consuming, and Toshiie soon found himself with cold, melted snow dribbling down his back. Toshiie tackled Hideyoshi in playful revenge, and they barreled into the snowman Gracia was working on. Mitsuhide raised an eyebrow, but Gracia seemed to find it amusing—she threw another snowball at Hideyoshi and soon the three of them began building walls and fortresses made of snow and fighting over whose side the frustrated-looking Katsuie and the flustered Ranmaru (who was fervently wiping his lips on his sleeve) were on. So much for peace.

Gracia turned her attention up at Mitsuhide and raised her hand. "Father! You're on my team, right?" Noh glanced at him expectantly.

Mitsuhide leaned over onto the rail of the deck with a slight smile and called down to his daughter. "Perhaps in spirit, yes."

Hideyoshi's shrill voice called back up at him. "You rotten traitor! I thought we were friends!"

"I, uh..." Mitsuhide stood straight, unsure how to respond.

"That's fine, then! I don't need you, you turncoat! I have Lord Nobunaga on my side!" Hideyoshi threw his arms in the air and bounced back and forth on his feet, not unlike a-

"Foolish monkey," Nobunaga sighed, crossing his arms and glancing over at Ieyasu Tokugawa and Tadakatsu Honda, who were indulging themselves in a cup of hot tea and quietly observing. Tadakatsu nonchalantly kicked a bit of snow with the perfect trajectory to land directly on Hideyoshi's back, and he yelped. While all attention rested on the loud, apelike man below him, Mitsuhide seized the opportunity to quietly slip into the castle through the shouji door.

The crisp resonance of a shamisen filled the air. Mitsuhide took a breath and glanced around the room; behind a screen with a wavelike pattern, sat the silhouette of a man about his age, sitting cross-legged and plucking on a stringed instrument. A deep, smooth voice rang out along with the plucking strings of the shamisen. "Little Gracia will be taken to slaughter out there against all those big men, don't you think? A bit of kindness towards your daughter even in something as inconsequential as a snowball fight wouldn't hurt."

Mitsuhide blinked, and sighed with relief, rubbing the back of his neck, when he realized the identity of the intruder. "Motochika? What are you doing here...?"

The sound stopped and the figure stood, gripping the neck of the shamisen and strutting nonchalantly out from behind the screen, running a gloved hand through his white fringe. "Am I unwelcome?"

Mitsuhide slackly reached a hand out. "No, I..."

"If I am, I'll gladly take my leave," Motochika paused and glanced back at Mitsuhide. "I don't want to inconvenience you."

Mitsuhide shook his head. "No, not at all. Really. I am happy to see you."

"It has been a while, hasn't it." Motochika smiled and extended a hand, and Mitsuhide gladly shook it. "But, I did miss my dear friend. I fear soon this wandering rebel may be here to stay."

Mitsuhide smiled broadly for the first time in a while. "But does the bat want to be caged?" Motochika sat once more near the shouji door and began plucking on the strings of his shamisen. The sound was clear and the edges of each note were smooth and distinct. Mitsuhide had always found pleasure in closing his eyes and letting the sounds of each vibrating string fill his senses. He found that Motochika's music even had a distinct smell, a taste.

"Never. As long as there is a cry for rebellion, the screams of the dead calling for justice, the bat will never truly be caged." Mitsuhide opened his eyes and stared intently at Motochika as he played. It seemed as though he had nary a worry in the world, and how he was able to do so was a mystery to Mitsuhide, whose day anymore, it seemed, wasn't complete without self-doubt and anxiety. He took another breath and sat next to Motochika, attempting to relax into the sounds flooding his ears. This was a place of calm, of respite. He much rather would have been here than outside dodging snowballs. Mitsuhide was certain he wasn't missing much of importance out there anyway.

"I see," he finally replied, allowing himself to rest ever so slightly. It seemed, the situation with Lord Nobunaga and his dream being what it was for Mitsuhide, that sitting with Motochika was the only place he could actually relax.

Silence chilled the room, only punctuated by the warmth of the crisp resonance of each note wafting from the shamisen, and it seemed to go on that way for hours, even though only a few short minutes had passed. It was these moments of respite that Motochika always seemed to bring along with him that Mitsuhide loved the most. It was as if it didn't matter what he did, or what decisions he made. The only thing that truly mattered when he was with Motochika was the present. And even if there were pressing decisions to be made, Mitsuhide knew Motochika would stand beside him to the ends of the earth. Motochika and Gracia, it seemed to Mitsuhide, were more a family to him than anyone else.

"Have you ever had a snowball fight?" Motochika finally breathed, almost as if he was reading Mitsuhide's mind. Leaning his head back against the wall, Motochika's eyelids lifted open to glance over at him.

"Ah... maybe once when I was a boy, but..."

"Mm," Motochika grunted, still plucking at the strings.

"Why do you ask?"

"You seemed hesitant to participate, that's all." Motochika smirked, keeping his eyes shut as he played.

Mitsuhide sighed in response, attempting to formulate a response. "It isn't my place."

"What isn't? Playing in the snow or being part of a family?"

Mitsuhide looked up, but said nothing in response. _Am I so transparent?_ He thought. Mitsuhide had never been "part of the whole", no matter how loyal he was to Lord Nobunaga. It was always that he never felt worthy of Nobunaga's ambition, regardless of his conviction, and regardless of how many times Hideyoshi had told him he was part of the family. Even he hadn't realized how truly impermanent he was to Nobunaga and his dream until now. So, then, how was it so obvious to Motochika? Was he the same way?

"Do you know that when I was a boy," Motochika continued, and his plucking slowed more and more until only a few stray notes rang out between his sentences. Each note punctuated his voice as if they were part of him, and his confidence and levelheadedness captured Mitsuhide's attention almost as much as Motochika's tale. An F sharp filled the room, and Mitsuhide shut his eyes again and let the sound take over. "I had heard of snow, but never seen it? And yet I had heard so many stories of it that it was almost as though I had been there myself to witness snow falling on the ground. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid my eyes on." He leaned back. "In my imagination, of course," he added.

C.

"In my head, I would imagine what it would be like if I picked some up in my hands, and it melted into a puddle of water."

B flat.

"And I made up my mind that I would see snow, I would touch snow. I would learn about it, see paintings of it. And I did. I studied what snow was like... and when I saw it for the first time, it was everything I had ever dreamed of, and more. I felt as though endless white slopes of frozen powder were calling to me, beckoning me to where I belonged."

G sharp. A pause. Mitsuhide leaned back onto the wall.

"I believe that there are many things in the world that man has not seen. Perhaps it is something one man has not yet seen, like snow, like a true family, a place where he is welcome and feels as though he belongs. But if it is something you have a desire to see, there is nothing stopping you from seeing, and learning, and trying." Motochika set down his pick and hovered a gentle finger over Mitsuhide's eyelids, slowly drawing them open and resting his hand on Mitsuhide's cheek. Mitsuhide unconsciously covered his hand with his own, still intently listening to Motochika. "You simply cannot see it because you close your eyes to it on purpose. You feel the truth of it may be sad, or painful, or nothing like you imagined it to be. And if you are afraid of becoming a part of something bigger than yourself, or opening your eyes to what is truly there..." Motochika smiled, his half-lidded brown gaze piercing Mitsuhide's. "I will be with you, I will be your rock, and even if your eyes are closed, you may always borrow mine."

Mitsuhide stared at his friend, mesmerized, at a loss for words. They never broke their eye contact. There was such a contentedness in his eyes, a promise of freedom; Motochika seemed to shine so brightly. He is alive; more alive than Mitsuhide knew he would ever be himself. His wisdom made him shine, too bright for the eyes to perceive on their own, directly. He seemed as though he was a being higher than man—Mitsuhide was a bit frightened at the idea, but he knew he wanted to touch it. He had to touch his radiance. To feel it himself, through his whole body. Even with his eyes closed, he would see. Leaning forward, he took a risk, brushing his lips across Motochika's. Neither of them flinched, and Motochika shut his own eyes for a brief moment before they parted. Their eyes met fleetingly as the kiss broke, and Mitsuhide looked away, once again at a loss for what to say. He finally glanced over to Motochika, scanning him for a hint of what to do next. Motochika's face, as usual, was open to any interpretation. Mitsuhide opened his mouth to say something, but only a drawn out "I, ah..." escaped his mouth, and Motochika put a finger to his friend's lips.

He removed his finger after a moment and put his hand on Mitsuhide's shoulder, his knowing smile and gentle eyes capturing all of Mitsuhide's attention. _Yes, as long as I'm with him, I will always belong. I can see anything if I borrow his eyes._

Mitsuhide opened his mouth one more time. "I was just going to ask you, considering your extensive knowledge about the subject..." He looked down at the thin blue gloves covering his hands. Surely that was enough to keep out the cold. "If you could show Gracia and I how to make the perfect snowball."


End file.
